


Who We Are

by zaan



Series: Unfamiliar Affections [7]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Adopted Children, Adoption, Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Getting Together, Kid Fic, M/M, Marriage, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon Cardassia, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-01-22 14:58:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaan/pseuds/zaan
Summary: A post canon Garashir love story ... with a twist.
Relationships: Elim Garak & Odo, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Kira Nerys/Odo
Series: Unfamiliar Affections [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1260128
Comments: 158
Kudos: 220





	1. Gods on High

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all of you who have followed this series and encouraged me to write more. Every Garashir author has at least one post canon Cardassia fic lurking in their heart. This is my first - I am also writing a lighter post-canon fic at the same time - Getting it Right (The Second Time Round). Enjoy!

"We cannot show weakness. The charity of the Federation is no such thing - it is a yoke."

The pedantic words reverberated across the stately hall of the former Cardassian Central Library, repurposed to serve as the new Council Chambers by virtue of being one of the few government buildings left standing.

It _used _to be, thought Garak, one of his favourite places. 

He swept his gaze around the table at the twenty-odd men and women - remnants of the military and Central Command – who now directed the future of Cardassia. To his right, Gul Kopak squirmed in his seat, shifting his considerable girth further toward Garak, who recoiled stiffly at the touch of their shoulders. 

"You are missing the point," Gul Bantlin retorted, her thin face lined with disdain. "You are advocating a military policy we cannot afford. It is one thing to reject Federation aid, _quite _another to engage in pointless military grandstanding."

"Why reject the aid at all?" Garak interjected. Across the table, Senec shook his head at him in silent reprimand. Garak ignored him. He didn't answer to Senec, or anyone else. He'd been peremptorily summoned to this Council meeting and then subjected to hours of this ... drivel. 

Gul Kopak pursed his lips in prim disapproval. "You've gone soft, Garak." 

"Soft?" Garak stared pointedly at the Gul's bulging belly. "Far from it." He raised a snicker or two of malicious satisfaction at the jab, but no one had the decency to be discomfited. 

"We don't need your opinion, Garak," Kopak continued, an unattractive flush darkening his cheeks.

"Oh? Then _why ever_ did you invite me to your little meeting?"

"I didn't."

"Gentlemen, please," Senec interrupted. "The Council wants information from the ground. Garak is in the best position to provide it." He tapped his fingers lightly on the table, an old warning used by the Order. Garak stared back and flicked a stray piece of plaster off the table - an unconventional but no less recognisable response.

"Thank you, Senec," replied Gul Bantlin, re-wresting control of the floor. She turned to Garak. There have been disturbing rumours," she explained. "Of sedition."

"And immorality," added a Gul Garak did not recognise. 

Barks of laughter littered the table. The Gul half rose from her chair. "You think the two aren't tied together? When Cardassians lose their values, they lose their respect for the state. Do you know what is happening out there?" She swept a condemnatory hand towards the windows. "Social classes breaking down, elders being ignored, people spawning bastards."

Gul Bantlin smiled tightly. "Thank you, Gul Untar. I'm sure Garak can address that issue as well. " 

Before his foray into Federation morals, Garak never would have questioned how the blood on his hands would matter far less to these people than the stain of his birth. Now, though .... he quelled the thought. It did not belong on Cardassia any more than he belonged in this chamber. 

"Sedition?" he asked. He paused, as if in thought, rising slowly to his feet. He strolled around the table, partly for the effect, more to get away from the claustrophobic seats. "Immorality, perhaps. Suffering, yes. Grievances, definitely. But sedition? No. Fortunately for the esteemed Council, the majority of people believe that the Federation has denied aid – not that Cardassia has rejected it." He wished it were a lie, but the need of the people to believe in their leaders, to feel stable ground beneath their feet, blinded them to whatever facts they heard. "You hardly have need to worry ... you are in the enviable position of having your cake and eating it too."

Gul Bantlin, frowning along with the other council members at the unfamiliar idiom, asked if there were questions. The table was silent.

"Good. We will expect you to keep us informed of any new developments, Garak."

With that, he was dismissed, the council already moving on to other matters. He bowed, bitterly, to no one and everyone, and left the room. 

Senec followed him out, stopping him as he stepped outside into the early dusk that was settling onto the city. "Well?"

Garak understood the unspoken question. He did not know how he would answer.

After the fall of the Dominion, Garak had believed, naively, in change. Too soon he realised his mistake. Cardassia was not the Federation. The past gripped her too fiercely. 

Senec had done well for himself following his return from the Dominion camp – well enough to survive, to have influence, to find himself a seat on the council – even if it were an uneasy one. Garak had felt the undercurrents. A power struggle. How bloody a one remained to be seen. 

"I'm not interested in being anyone's pawn," he said.

"Elim ..."

Garak turned away. "I'm tired, Talin. I've been nothing but tired and hungry and sore for months. You've no idea how it is."

Senec frowned but said nothing. Garak knew he would never understand his decision to stay in the camps, to join the work crews, when as a member of the elite - however low on the ladder - he could do otherwise.

Garak sighed and, grateful that Senec did not press him, relented. "Come by the camp next week."

Garak slowly picked his way through the broken streets back to his tent. In truth, it wasn't the hunger or the thirst that bothered him most. He barely noticed them anymore, the stagnant water slick with oil, the ubiquitous Yirkthorn berries that flourished in the blast holes and left a burning itch in his throat. It wasn't the lack of shelter, the lack of doctors, the lack of sanitation. It wasn't the perpetual discomfort, the untreated sores, the exhaustion, the dirt and dust creeping under his scales. 

No, it was the council, and those like them. None of them dusty, none of them dirty. None of them sleeping on hard ground. None of them with hunger etched into their eyes. They descended from their ships as gods from heaven, as deaf and as blind as any deity. 

As he walked, he kept a sharp eye on his surroundings. The camps could be dangerous, especially if one owned anything. He supposed he was fortunate he did not; nothing had remained of Tain's house, and anything else he had once owned was now moldering on Deep Space 9.

Even if he had not been so impoverished, his reputation – both as an Order operative and a hero of the rebellion – would have kept his tent sacrosanct. Even so, he guarded his scant dwelling jealously with the judicious placement of (mostly harmless) booby traps. 

As he approached his home he nodded at his neighbour, Lorana, an older woman who had lost all of her immediate family in the bombardment. Everything looked normal. Nothing had been tampered with, and he saw only familiar faces in the row of tents – bar one. 

Garak pretended to busy himself, watching the orphan boy obliquely. Not just an orphan, he corrected himself, seeing the faint trace of the scar - a bastard, as well, and young, likely not more than four. 

Garak did not approach nor speak to the boy. There was no point. The children, especially the younger ones, were near feral and – rightfully – would be afraid of an adult Cardassian male. He did, however, rather carelessly leave a ration bar and a thin scarf on a rock beside his tent. He noticed with satisfaction how quickly it and the boy disappeared. A smart one. Perhaps he would survive. Whether it was worth it for the future he would face was debatable.

He looked up at the sound of Lorana's voice and walked over in response to her invitation. Wordlessly, she handed him half a cup of thin soup. Before Garak could refuse she raised her hand. "If you can be generous, so can I," she said.

Garak snorted and sank down to the ground beside her.

"I'm leaving Prime," she said.

Garak paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. "Your family?" She had spoken of them, distant relatives on one of the outer worlds. Poor farmers who could not afford another mouth, except that on Cardassia family is family (unless it is not) and they had finally arranged for her to live with them. Her life would not be much better, the off worlds suffering as much or more than Prime, but she would not be alone.

"I'm glad," he said. "But I'll miss you." 

The finished their soup in silence, Garak thinking of Julian. He would not have been able to admit such a small thing before – missing someone. 

He looked up at the burgeoning stars, waiting for a glimpse of Bajor - much as he had once waited for a glimpse of Cardassia.

Julian. Another sacrifice for Cardassia. He wondered what he was doing.

He hoped he was happy.


	2. Politics of Aid

"To the return of Julian Bashir, the famous frontier doctor!" toasted Kira, waggling her glass of kanar affectionately.

Julian leaned forward to clink glasses with her and Ezri. Taking a large swig of ale, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, absorbing the sounds and smells of Quark's: the pungency of Bajoran spices, the murmur of conversation, the mellowness of aged liquor, the click-click-click of the dabo wheel. He felt the tingling warmth of their welcome flow through him - no doubt aided and abetted by a substantial amount of ale. 

"It's good to be back," he said simply. 

"So what was it like as, you know, _the_ _head_ of the Federation's Relief Program?" teased Ezri. 

"Exhausting," he said, responding to her jest with a small smile and a dramatic sigh. "But also, well ... disillusioning." 

"Oh? In what way?" 

He could feel Ezri's eyes on him but kept his own resolutely on his glass. He traced a finger through the condensation, watching the water bead and run. "It was just ..." he struggled to form his dissatisfaction into words. "You know that the Koreda were hit hard in the war, right? Well, I was made to understand that our efforts in helping them were to be minimal. Not in so many words, not explicitly, but it was clear enough – a punishment for rejecting Federation membership." 

He took a long drink, eyes inward as he thought. "It's not as if I've never encountered bad things in the Federation, or people who flout its ideals, but ... I don't know, I guess I've been kind of isolated here, working more on the front lines, so to speak. I'd never really believed that there were these widespread systemic issues. I guess I was surprised – and a little dismayed - to find there could even be politics in relief efforts."

Kira snorted. "_Even_ in relief efforts?"

"All right. Maybe I'm still a little naive."

"In a good way," Ezri said, placing her warm hand on his arm.

Julian blushed and changed the topic. "Anyway, what about you two? I'd love to hear the station gossip." 

Ezri filled him in on the comings and goings and numerous going ons; when she was done, Kira took up the baton. Julian found it telling that where Ezri spoke immediately of people, Kira spoke immediately of politics.

"The big debate on Bajor right now is whether or not to join the Federation. Both sides are predicating their arguments on the Captain's warning that Bajor must not join – whether he meant it only to protect Bajor during the war or whether he meant it definitively." She ran a hand roughly through her hair. "The Federation isn't helping its cause, anyway. Bajor has hinted – strongly – that it would like more control of DS9, but we keep getting pushed off."

"On what grounds?" asked Julian.

"Extremely tenuous ones – all in our best interest of course." She signalled to Frool as he passed and he brought her another kanar. Kira – reaching for the glass - caught Julian with his head angled back, hand absently rubbing his jaw as he studied her.

"What?" she said, a clear warning underlining the word.

Julian grinned. "I still can't believe you're drinking kanar."

She blushed but crossed her arms defiantly. "So? _You_ sit in a dusty basement on Cardassia for months on end with nothing else to drink and see what happens." She picked up the glass, frowning at the icy blue liquid. "I don't even _like _it."

"I imagine Quark will run out sooner or later," said Julian. "I heard most of the vineyards were wiped out, well, along with everything else."

"Julian ... I'm sure he ... I'm sure Garak –" Ezri began.

"It's all right," Julian interrupted. "Really," he added as he saw her frown. "I won't pretend I'm over it, or that I'm not worried sick about him, but I – it feels good, to talk about him again, even if it does hurt." He took in a deep breath. "Have you heard anything – about how things are there?"

Kira shook her head. "Nothing new. Nothing good. Mostly nothing at all." _Like it's one giant graveyard_, she thought, shivering.

"I know, I've been watching the newsfeeds." He had, in fact, obsessed over them, even to the point of learning Romulan just so he could hack into their newsfeeds as well. The scant news that escaped the closed borders was not good, the only thing flourishing was a pervasive anti-Federation sentiment.

"The Federation has rescinded its offer of aid," he said.

"Cardassia refused it," Kira pointed out.

"Yes, after we made them beg and grovel and then sent them an insultingly inadequate shipment of second hand supplies," he said, his bitterness mounting. "Though nobody talks about that. The truth is the Federation wanted Cardassia to feel its humiliation, and that was more important to them than the people in need."

"I'm sorry, Julian," said Ezri.

"So am I."

Ezri hesitated, glancing at Kira. "Julian, we - Nerys and I - we weren't sure what to do, but, well ... when we cleaned out Garak's quarters it didn't feel quite right getting rid of any of his personal belongings. We put them in a box in your closet, but if you don't want the reminder, we can move them into storage."

"No, don't do that. I'll go through them."

"Alright. Let me know if you want help – or if you want to talk." She got up and kissed him on the cheek. "Welcome back."

"Thanks, Ez."

"So," Kira said after Ezri had left.

"So." Julian realised that without Ezri as a buffer, the awkwardness that had always plagued his conversations with Kira returned. He cleared his throat. "Nerys, I think it fair to tell you that I expect to be offered a new posting within a few months." 

"A promotion?"

"Maybe. On a starship, I hope. They certainly won't be offering me an administrator position again."

"We'll miss you, but I think it will be good for you. There are too many memories here sometimes."

Julian had a feeling she wasn't talking about him.

They talked a little more, then called it a night. He walked reluctantly through the empty corridors, in no hurry to reach his even emptier quarters. The furniture was still there as he had left it, the pictures still on the wall, but all he noticed was the person missing. 

If he only knew that Garak was all right, then maybe – maybe - he could let him go. For now, all he could do was take a tentative step in that direction.

He found the box in the closet in the guest room. There was clothing, still dusted with Garak's unique scent of warm desert sand. Books, of course, and the few presents Julian had given him: a chess board, a small sculpture of a dragon, a Vulcan meditation puzzle. In the end he kept only a small portrait of Garak in his cell that Ziyal had once drawn. This he put in the drawer beside the bed. Everything else he packed back in the box, knowing he should donate or reclaim the items, but knowing he would not.

As he showered and got ready for bed, something nagged at him. It was not until much later in the sleepless night that it came to him. One of Garak's books was missing – a real book, not a data rod, and one that he had gifted him: a slim, red-leathered volume of Shakespeare's love sonnets.

There was only one explanation. Garak had taken it with him, had carried it with him, as he had gone with Kira and Damar to fight for Cardassia. He turned on his side and curled up as the tears trickled onto the pillow.

Garak had wanted, had needed, to keep Julian close.


	3. Storms Ahead

Seeing the other members of the work crew imperceptibly tense and speed up their movements, Garak fought the natural inclination to imitate them. When one hurried, one made mistakes. Patience was a foundational precept of the Order, one in which he excelled by nature, and one that had served him not only in the Order but in his exile, in the war, and now here as he helped to rebuild his homeworld one heavy stone at a time.

Garak braced his legs and hefted, muscles protesting as he forced the stone up and let it topple over on its side. He crouched down and swept the dirt away with his hand, relieved to see that the power lines the stone had been restricting were undamaged. While it was true the work would go much faster if they had access to the machinery currently assigned to the military crews (repairing a damaged electrical line that would bring only a limited amount of power (but much comfort) to the poorer parts of the camp was not a national priority), he could not deny the satisfaction of accomplishment that came from weeks of hard work – nor the satisfaction of siphoning off electricity from the military's primary power grid. Task done, he looked up, having a strong suspicion of what he would find. 

The sky was stained with that peculiar brownish colour of dried blood that heralded one of the frequent but unpredictable dust storms that plagued Cardassia. Sometimes they lingered on the horizon, like a well-fed predator, watching and waiting, harmless but unnerving. Other times they sprung with unbelievable speed, catching the unwary in a choking grip of dust and debris.

Getting up with a groan, having pulled yet another muscle, Garak made his way to where a young man was working busily to repair a control panel. He was so immersed in his work that he didn't notice Garak's approach until Garak tapped him on the shoulder. He didn't startle but looked up with a bright, expectant smile.

Garak's heart clenched; the trust and optimism of the young man reminded him painfully of Julian. 

"Just give me a second." Porlock tidied up his work and stood, dusting off his pants with an habitual rather than a conscious – or effective – brush of his hands.

The impromptu work groups, comprised as they were of available bodies, lacked external structure but had quickly acquired an internal hierarchy. Garak – though by far not the most experienced person in the group - had somehow found his advice sought out, his judgment deferred to, and his opinions acted upon. Porlock had appointed himself Garak's right hand, and Garak had come to rely upon his competence and enthusiasm.

"We should stop," Garak said.

Porlock frowned and flicked his eyes around the work site. "But we're _so close_," he protested.

Garak shook his head, although he too was tempted.

"It's dangerous to think that way. You know how it is – we may think it's only another few hours, but how often have we said that only to find another complication? And the more we rush, the more likely we are to miss something. We could easily find ourselves stuck out here in the storm with weeks of work undone. Better that we keep everyone safe, and the work safe as well. Besides, I think that young lady of yours might like to see you back early. "

The young man grinned and shuffled off, his gait hampered by a slightly twisted leg acquired when he was trapped under the rubble for two days during the bombardment. Garak watched him as he went round the crew. Soon the bustle transformed into an ordered effort as everyone worked together to secure the site against the gusty winds and pockets of sand that accumulated during the storms.

"You were right," said Porlock, after everyone else had gone, a worried eye on the horizon. "It's moving quicker than I thought."

"Get yourself home," said Garak, clapping him on the back.

"I will. You too."

Garak made a final tour of the site to check everything was covered and tied down securely. Only when satisfied did he leave. As he walked, his thoughts turned inward. His mind returned to the conversation he had had with Senec a few days before. Senec had been vague, circling around Garak's questions, wanting a commitment but unprepared to give Garak the assurance that might secure it. It was unlike Senec, and Garak was not sure what to make of it.

From what he could tell the Council was fracturing along, unsurprisingly, the old divisions: the Military and Central Command. Although Garak had no doubt that a remnant of the Order remained under Senec's leadership, it was too fractured and under resourced to be a power in its own right. Senec would have no choice but to align himself with either Kopak or Bantlin. Garak suspected he was courting both, withholding anything but the appearance of support until he could see which one was likely to gain ascendancy.

He saw now that he had been summoned to the Council merely to plant the idea of general unrest. It explained an incident that had happened the day before. The rumour was that a mob of people had attacked a military aid station. In truth (he had heard the particulars directly from some of the people in his quarter who had been present) it was a petty squabble between individuals over an aid package. 

Senec might as well have been following the Order handbook, fostering rumours which could subsequently be used either to raise fear or bring discredit against whomever one chose: the Military, Central Command, or – Garak was no fool - Garak himself, as the supposed instigator of the alleged attacks.

He realised that Senec saw him as a threat, a rival. Not believing Garak would live in the camps out of solidarity, he chose to believe he was establishing his own power base. It would be no use telling him otherwise. Garak scowled. He wanted only to be left out of it, to go on as he was making what penance he could, but he could feel himself being dragged inexorably back into the bloody world he had once belonged to.

A sudden gust of wind brought him back to the present, and he found himself already well within the boundaries of the camp and not far from the quarter that had become his home. The wind gusted again, bringing with it sharp bites of sand and worry. Despite every intention not to, he began looking for the boy.

Contrary to his expectations, the boy had not disappeared like the others. Garak was not sure where he spent the day, but every evening he was waiting, watching him with wary, hopeful eyes as Garak brought out his meal and set a portion of it out to be snatched by eager hands. Garak knew he should never have encouraged him; nothing good could come of it. Yet, as he descried the small figure huddled against a pile of boulders, sheltering from the wind, he thanked a power he did not believe in and, as the little face looked up eagerly, he prayed for guidance.

"Well, good evening, Reet'cha," he said as he approached. Garak still had no idea of his name, if indeed he had been given one, and so had taken to calling him Reet'cha, which meant 'little friend'. The boy had never spoken to him, but listened and watched intently. "There's going to be a storm, don't you think? And soon, by the look of it. I think it would be better to eat in the tent, don't you agree?"

Feeling the boy's eyes on him, he tied upon the flap of the tent and went inside, wondering if the boy would follow him in and wondering what he would do if he did not. He lit a small stove to heat a packet of stew he had been saving, hoping the smell would entice the boy inside. After a few minutes, he heard the tell-tale shuffle of small feet. 

"We're having some stew for dinner. That will be nice, won't it? Why don't you sit on the bed? Not like there are many other places to sit, I know – it is rather a small tent, I admit. Still, it should keep out the dust and the sand." 

Garak kept up a small stream of conversation as he waited for the stew to simmer. He could see the boy out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the bed, watching him. Garak scooped the stew into two battered bowls and turned to the boy. As he did so, the wind picked up, tendrils of it finding their way into the tent.

"Well, that's quite the wind, isn't it? We don't want sand in our stew, do we?" he asked, and was rewarded with a slight shake of the head. Garak gave him his bowl and set his own back on the stove as he closed the flap, though normally he left it open in deference to his claustrophobia. He knew he could not do so during a storm, but he regretted the necessity. 

Garak retrieved his dinner and joined the boy on the bed. As they ate Garak talked, telling him about the work crew and what they were doing. He noticed the boy would jerk his head up every time the wind howled, likely in anticipation of the end of dinner and his expected foray back out into the dark.

Garak's heart broke a little bit. What was that saying Julian liked? In for a penny, in for a pound?

"All finished? Yes," he said, answering the boy's thoughts and following his gaze. "It's quite the storm out there, isn't it? I think it would be best if you slept in here with me tonight, don't you?" The boy's eyes widened as Garak reached for his bowl. Garak cleaned up the small space and put the bowls back in their place.

"Perhaps we can have a story before bed. Do you like stories? Good. So do I."

He told him a story Mila had told him in his childhood, one he hadn't thought of in years, not sure what had brought it to mind. As he spoke, the boy edged closer and closer until he was leaning against him. They had almost made it to the end of the story when Garak felt the small body relax into sleep. Garak lay back on the bed and covered them both with the thin blanket. He sighed, curling an arm protectively around his charge, and wondered what he was getting himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I'll have to come up with a real name for this kid at some point - suggestions welcome!


	4. Snippets of Defiance

Julian and Ezri were trying to find their own thing. Darts and literature were too strongly associated with Miles and Garak for Julian, while music and cooking were too strongly associated with Worf and Ben for Ezri. They had tried fine food, which Julian couldn't appreciate, and Bajoran chanting, which Ezri couldn't stand. Neither had felt right suggesting the things Julian and Jadzia used to do: drinking Romulan ale and playing juvenile pranks. 

They had pranked nearly everyone on the station. They had even pranked Garak, once. Julian, wanting to see him flustered, and Jadzia, up for anything, had broken into Garak's shop, removed his stock and replaced it with a kaleidoscopic collection of skimpy, Risa-inspired fashions. 

The next morning Julian, peering from behind his potted plant, had watched Garak open the shop and behold their handiwork. To Julian's disappointment, he had shown no reaction other than to relock the door. 

Within 15 minutes Garak had found his stock (which had taken them hours to hide); an hour later he'd sold the Risian outfits to Quark (for a tidy profit); by lunch time his shop was restored to its usual immaculateness (with no word of the incident passing his lips); and later that afternoon Julian and Jadzia had mumbled and drooled through the senior staff meeting (from an unfortunate reaction to an unidentified allergen somehow introduced into their lunches).

They stuck to Worf after that.

Fortunately or unfortunately, even if Julian and Ezri had wanted a return to recklessness, they faced too many obstacles. First, Ezri's stomach was too weak for drinks and her compassion too strong for jests. Second, Jake and Nog – on whom Odo had blamed their activities – were no longer around to act as scapegoats. 

So they had settled on games. Once or twice a week they picked and played a new game, sampling their way across the quadrant. Julian excelled at games of memory, Ezri at games of perception, so they alternated between the two with the odd game of chance thrown in for fun. 

"Have you heard about your new posting yet?" asked Ezri, as she moved a red square into an empty slot. It beeped and turned yellow. 

Julian picked up a blue square. "No, not yet. I don't imagine it will be much longer though." He placed it on top of her previously-red square and frowned as it turned green.

Ezri grinned. "You don't sound excited."

"I think I'll wait and see what they offer me before I get my hopes up." He watched her select her next piece. They were playing a Bolian game called Blippiblubloo where the objective was to turn all of the game pieces into your chosen colour (through no pattern he could yet discern). "Did you know I'd gotten an official reprimand?"

Ezri paused in her selection. "No, for what?"

"Offering an unwelcome opinion to superiors."

"That's not grounds for a reprimand."

"It is when it's delivered loudly and repeatedly."

"Ah." Ezri chose a white square, then watched with pleasure as it turned green. "Ever the diplomat."

"You've got me confused with Garak." He frowned as another piece of his turned green. "What about you, Ez? Are you putting in for another posting?"

"No, I don't think so. I'm finally starting to feel settled after all the unexpectedness of the joining and the chaos of the war. I'd like to, I don't know, bask in it for a bit."

"Well, if you –"

The beep of his combadge interrupted him.

"Bashir here."

"Doctor, we've just been notified of another ship from Koreda. They're due to arrive in one hour," came Kira's voice.

"Right. Ezri is here with me. We'll meet you there. Bashir out."

As Ezri resignedly tossed the game into the replicator, she said, "That's the third ship this month."

"Yes," said Julian, "It's a good thing the Bajoran government has agreed to accept so many refugees."

"Given the Federation won't," said Ezri, finishing his implied criticism.

The Federation had refused to accept non-Federation aligned refugees. Further, in a move to show its disapproval of Bajor, which had essentially thumbed its nose at the Federation, Starfleet officers on DS9 had been forbidden from officially providing aid or assistance.

Doing their own thumbing, Julian, Ezri, and others had donned Bajoran beige and now worked alongside their peers as volunteers.

When Julian and Ezri arrived in Shuttle Bay 3, they were greeted by the unsmiling face of Odo's replacement, Ro Laren. Julian and Ro's first meeting had gone poorly due to his awkwardness and her aloofness; she had not taken to Julian, nor he to her. Julian found her as grim and as rigid as the constable but lacking his kindness and compassion. Surprisingly to him, her dislike did not disturb him as it would have in his youth. He no longer felt the need to convince others that he was worthy of friendship. 

They greeted each other stiffly, Ezri acting as a buffer until Kira arrived a few moments later. Kira only nodded briefly before pulling out her PADD. 

With repetition, the process had become smoother, almost routine. Ro and her team went in first to secure the ship and run background checks. The families were then sent to Julian and the medical team, and afterwards to Ezri's team who provided assistance with urgent non-medical needs. Kira, meanwhile, handled logistics with Bajor, finding and arranging transportation and lodging for the new arrivals in one of the growing refugee camps.

"It's a medium sized ship – 159 passengers," said Kira. Her fingers slid across the screen with practiced ease as she flicked her eyes over the ship's manifest. "The ship is from Koreda, but you know what that means." Koreda had become a hub for displaced peoples and it was not unusual receive offworld refugees – there had even been a few individuals from the gamma quadrant. "I've already been in touch with a camp in the Kendra province, and they have space. I'm going to try for transport tonight, so we need to do this fast and efficiently. Ro, the first .priority is identification; don't worry about full background checks. Red flag anyone suspicious and we'll hold them back for further processing. Dax, urgent needs only and replicate as many commonly requested items as you can in advance. Doctor, same thing: urgent needs only, but notify me if you find any communicable diseases. All right?" She looked questioningly around the group. "Good, let's keep the line moving."

Julian went to the back corner of the bay, where his staff were already setting up a temporary infirmary, using crates to establish what privacy they could. It wasn't long after they finished that the first families arrived, huddled together in an exhausted confusion, looking around nervously and keeping tight hands on their children.

Julian's staff handled the screening; only individuals needing treatment were seen by Julian. The first person he saw was a man with a fractured arm. As the man came in nervously, Julian smiled at him. The man's eyes were pale blue and pained.

Julian averted his eyes and picked up the osteo-regenerator. He ushered the man over to an upturned crate and examined the arm. "Don't worry," Julian said. "I'll have this good as new in a minute."

"Thank you, doctor." The man was silent, but he kept placing a hand on his knee and then removing it, so that Julian was unsurprised when he spoke. "I don't want to be a bother, sir, but my son – he has nightmares, you know, and I thought –"

"I'm sorry," Julian said softly. "I've only time to treat urgent needs." He felt the sting of the words as he said them, as if he were denying the urgency of the boy's suffering. "I mean, things I can treat quickly. But there are doctors at the camps –"

"Of course."

Julian bit his lip and continued on in silence, knowing there were too many needs and not enough doctors. When he had finished, the man nodded silently and left.

As he waited for the next patient, Julian tried to reach the equilibrium he sometimes managed to find. It was elusive. He wavered between the personal and the impersonal, from numbing his soul to having it torn apart. 

He didn't know which was worse.

It was late when Julian returned to his quarters. He didn't particularly wish to be there, too overstimulated to sleep, but he wished less to deal with the noise and crowds at Quark's. He had thought of catching up on research, but when he entered he was greeted by the welcome and welcoming red flash of the comm unit. A few moments later, he was greeted by the even more welcome face of Miles O'Brien.

"Julian! I didn't expect to hear from you this late."

"I just got back to my quarters, actually. We had another refugee ship come in."

"Has anyone followed up with you about your, ah, input?" Miles asked delicately.

Julian groaned. "Miles, can we please not talk that? It's too depressing." 

The previous week Julian had attended a conference on Bajor and had run into his former supervisor from the aid division. They had fallen into a debate on Federation policy and - influenced partly by the man's intransigence and insolence, and partly by his slight inebriation - Julian had spontaneously, gloriously, loudly and ill-advisedly castigated him on 'cutting the heart out of the Federation and watching it bleed to death'.

Miles scratched his head and turned a shade redder. "Actually, Julian, that's sort of why I called."

"Are they planning on kicking me out of Starfleet?" Julian frowned, a welling of defiance rising in him. 

"No, that's not it. You probably didn't notice at the time, what with taking a piece out of the guy and all, but somebody got a recording of you yelling at him."

"What?! Are you sure?"

Miles grinned. "You didn't half do yourself justice when you described it, you know."

"You've seen it." A statement rather than a question.

"Yeah, well, it's all over the Academy, you know."

Julian groaned. "Great, just great."

"That's just it, Julian. It may be. You know we weren't the only ones unhappy with the Federation's post-war policies, but nobody wanted to say anything. This is getting people talking. There was even a protest at Starfleet headquarters with banners and all saying _Put the heart back in the Federation._"

Julian felt a rush of emotions: embarrassment, pride, fear, hope, despair, and who knew what else. "It may come to nothing," he said.

"No, it mayn't. But you spoke up Julian, and other people are speaking up. That's what counts in the end."


	5. Ravens at the Crossroads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are following chapter by chapter, an additional scene was added at the end of chapter 4 that you may want to read before moving on to chapter 5.

Garak held the ragged garment gingerly, painstakingly mending the numerous rips and tears. It felt natural to have a needle in his hands again, and somehow comforting. He shivered slightly; the morning sun provided ample light for his work but little heat, and he had sacrificed his heavier outfit to make serviceable clothes for the boy - Pip, as Garak had christened him. 

He scrutinised him as he worked. Pip was playing close by, intently building small, neat piles of rubble. Garak wondered if the sculptures were examples of order, art, architecture, fantasy or something else entirely. He could not ask. The boy was unnaturally quiet. He listened, but he did not speak. 

Pip did not look at him often, but he never wandered far. If Garak went to fetch water or talk to a neighbour, Pip was a shadow beside him. Something in the worried eyes, the tense posture, reminded Garak of a stray riding hound Mila had briefly taken in when he was a boy. It too had been watchful, forever underfoot and howling unconsolably if left alone. 

At a sudden noise Pip's head jerked up, and he fixed his gaze on Garak, who flashed him a soft signal with his fingers. _Safe. _ It was one of a number of Order signals that Garak had taught him, both as a convenience to Garak, who preferred the practicality, and as a comfort to Pip, who responded more readily to non-verbal communication. The boy relaxed and returned to his play. The smile Garak had given along with the signal wavered – the trust unnerved Garak, its burden of responsibility worrying. Though safer than he had been on the streets, he knew Pip was not safe with him. 

Nor accepted. Though Pip ignored them, seemingly unaware of their presence, Garak watched the children next door as they played. A large family had immediately claimed Lorana's vacated tent, their initial friendly overtures souring at the sight of the betraying tattoo on Pip's arm that marked him as a bastard. Their reflexive dismissal, the condescension, inspired fantasies of reprisal and revenge in Garak. The mother, glimpsing the evil eye that followed her offspring, kept them wisely out of his way. 

Now, seeing the children whisper and send pointed sneers in Pip's direction at his odd and solitary play, Garak determined once again to find a family to adopt him. The most promising prospect was Porlock and his enjoined. He had influence on Porlock - and the young man had a warm heart. Even so it was a tentative hope. The feelings of the service class against orphans and bastards was deeply held, a prejudice people clung to even more fiercely in difficult times. 

Garak shook out the shirt and inspected his work in the glare of the sun. Satisfied, he folded it and set it aside on the slowly warming rock. It would be a fine day. He should have been annoyed that such good weather had come on a ration-day and not a work day, but he wasn't. It was nice to sit in the sun. He had had too little rest, too few moments of reflection.

He stood and stretched. There were still several hours until his quarter would be required to line up for rations, but already he saw people starting to mill around the distribution platform – those who, unable to ignore or suppress the constant hunger, had consumed the previous week's rations too quickly or had not supplemented them sufficiently enough with the loathsome Yirkthorn berries to take off the hunger's worst edge. 

A ripple of noise through the quarter alerted him to some disturbance. He stiffened, then relaxed. He saw interest, not alarm. A minute later Porlock appeared, the whispers following behind him. Visits were not uncommon between quarters, but Porlock was unknown in the street and strangers were noticed. Garak saw Pip slip between the piles of rubble, invisible.

"Garak! I'm glad I found you here." As he came up Porlock reached out reflexively and grasped Garak's forearm. Garak returned the grip, steadying him.

"What is it, Pym? What's happened?" Porlock's quarter was the first to receive rations, and the young man should have been at home securing them. 

"The soldiers are refusing to hand out rations. They say there's been sabotage, and they want the person responsible – until then they say there won't be rations for the whole quarter," he said, the explanation rushing out. 

Garak jerked his head down decisively. "Let's go." He gathered his sewing and stashed it in the tent, flashing a signal to Pip. _Wait. _Then he stood and followed Porlock, struggling to keep up with the young man's long legs and agitated pace.

As they approached Porlock's quarter the air thickened with worried, angry murmurs and the streets became clogged with confused, hungry faces. The crowds, though thick, held well clear of the distribution platform and its panoply of soldiers. 

Garak pushed through the mass, breathing easier as he gained open ground and the familiar threat of guns and violence. 

At once, a soldier barked at him. "Back in line." 

"Who's in charge here, Glinn?" he barked back. "Gul Kopak?" The young glinn faltered under the daggered glare that had cowed older and more experienced guls, his uncertain eyes betraying a knot of soldiers behind him near the main replicating unit. Garak shouldered past the glinn who, in an attempt to reassert his power and position, accosted and turned back Porlock as he tried to follow. 

Once past the glinn, Garak slowed down and sauntered over to the group, hands behind his back. "Gul Kopak," he said, a genial smile on his lips. 

Kopak swung round. "What are you doing here, Garak?" he growled.

Garak leaned sideways to inspect the damage and tutted. "I heard you were having some difficulties and, being in the neighbourhood, thought I would see if I could be of assistance?"

Kopak's narrow eyes smoldered in thought. He disliked Garak, but could not deny he had skills that could be useful in the current situation (they were still waiting for an engineer, the destruction of the replicator not being deemed essential). "There's been sabotage," he admitted reluctantly. "Get the replicators, find the culprit, and you'll be rewarded."

Garak replied only with a smile and nod, coolly checking the hot flush of anger at the man's insolent condescension. He breathed out through his nose, focused his attention, and turned to the replicator. He did not like what he saw. Sabotage, but not ordinary sabotage. He had been trained to do exactly this, to render a thing inoperative through showy damage easily mended. Senec was counting on Kopak to bungle this, to create unrest through false arrests or denied rations, perhaps even to spark a riot. This time the anger reached a simmer; he clamped a lid on it firmly. 

Garak pushed himself up and turned to Kopak. "It's a volcha," he said, referring to the smaller cousins of voles that infested the camps. "I'm happy to repair the damage. In the meantime, I suggest you begin handing out rations."

The soldiers, relieved, nodded briskly and went to pass the word. Garak bent back down and opened the panel. He cleaned up the cosmetic damage and reconnected the wires, ignoring Kopak's pacing. 

When he finished, he inclined his head in the manner of the service class, matching his words but letting his tone drip vinegar. "Be sure to let me know if you have any other _sabotage, _gul."

"Of course, now that I know that vermin are your specialty," Kopak spat. Now that the crisis was past, resentment at being in Garak's debt resurfaced. He grabbed Garak's arm, hissing, "I don't know what you're up to, Garak, but we've got our eyes on you – you and your little bastard."

In less than a second, Kopak was backed against a wall with a knife pressing against a vital artery in his abdomen, Garak positioned in front of him so that a casual observer would see only a private conversation. Kopak was not a coward, but the biting cold of Garak's eyes caused an involuntary tremor to run wild through his body. He knew of Garak's background, had heard the rumours, but had thought him gone soft, or the rumours exaggerated. Now he knew the truth. He gasped, trying to breathe. The grip on his throat tightened.

"Be very sure, Kopak, not to cross me," whispered the son of Tain. "You think you're safe in that ship of yours? I don't care how many security encryptions you have, they won't stop me if I decide to come for you." 

Garak's caged anger burst forth as a silent thrilling cry to slide the knife in, to hear the suck of flesh as he pulled it out, to see the shock and pain in the gul's stupid, bloated face. He pushed closer, licking his lips, breathing heavily.

Some whisper, some echo of reason reached him. He released the gul as abruptly as he had grabbed him, replaced the hidden knife neatly, and was gone through the crowd before Kopak could regain his breath. 

Garak slipped through the crowd, avoiding Porlock. He did not go home but out to the edges of the city where there was only the dead bodies and the vermin that fed on them. He was incensed with himself. It was a fool who lost his temper and threatened someone. Sentiment. There was no room for sentiment, not on Cardassia, not for someone like him. 

Things could not go on as they were. It was time to stop fooling himself.

It was time to act.


	6. Pen in Ink

"Dr. Bashir!"

Julian looked up and saw a grinning Jake Sisko leaning against the doorway of the infirmary. Julian rose, stepping forward with a disbelieving smile and reached out to grab Jake's shoulder. "Jake! What are you doing here?"

Jake unshouldered his rucksack and let it drop to the floor. He held out his hand and Julian shook it. "I'm on my way to an assignment on Bajor. I wanted to stop by, see the old place, say hi." He looked around and shook his head. "It feels weird without my Dad here, you know?"

Julian nodded. He knew Kira missed him more than she would say, and Julian felt bereft in a way he couldn't quite name.

"It's the worst for my grandfather," Jake said. He glanced at the porthole and waved a hand out towards the wormhole, his eyes shining as if he could see Ben Sisko there. When he spoke, his voice was firm. "You see, I _know _he's okay and that he's coming back, sometime. But grandpa ..." He shrugged. Jake had tried and failed to convince Joseph Sisko of his son's return. He'd stopped when he saw his reassurances only hurt his grandfather more, when he realised that faith could not be bestowed like a gift. "I'm living at his place now, and that helps. We keep each other company."

"I'm sure he appreciates it, and I'm sure he takes good care of you."

Jake rubbed his belly and laughed. "Yeah, too good. He says hi, but the way. Hopes you're well and all that. He was also wondering if maybe you're heard anything from Garak? It's just, he worries about him."

Julian sighed and looked down, a twist marring the smile he gave Jake. "Unfortunately, there's not much chance of communication with Cardassia. Things there aren't great, but Elim's a survivor. Tell that to your grandfather. And that his friendship meant a lot to Elim. He - " Julian stopped as a thought occurred to him. "Actually, Jake, I've got something for your grandfather if you think he'd want it. Elim left his things behind, and there's an apron he was making to send to your grandfather for his birthday. It's not finished, but ..."

Jake held up a hand. "I'm sure he'd like it. Thanks, doc."

Julian nodded, absurdly pleased because he knew Elim would be pleased. He hid his embarrassment with a question. "So how's the career going? I enjoyed that piece you did on the Hamlind affair."

Jake's face ignited with a pride just short of conceit. "Did you? Did you like the part about the role Denton played? I wanted to put in how he has links to the Orion syndicate, but the news service wouldn't accept the article until I pulled it out."

"You're doing freelance then?"

Jake's expression fell. "Yeah, it's really hard to get hired by a big agency like the Federation News Service. But – " he continued gamely, trying to convince Julian with arguments that hadn't quite worked on himself, "Freelance is more interesting. You've got more freedom to write about stuff that really matters." He paused, a fluttering laugh and light flush betraying his self-consciousness. "Though getting people to read it ... Actually, um, I was hoping to interview you while I was here. You're the talk of the sector, you know."

"I know. The response has been kind of overwhelming, to tell you the truth." He'd done a number of interviews, but after seeing his words mangled and misquoted had shied away from further requests. 

Julian eyed the young man as he fidgeted, trying not to watch Julian as Julian watched him. Julian remained uncertain, but the sight of the young man's discomfort and the remembrance of Benjamin Sisko swayed him, and he nodded. "All right."

"You will?" said Jake, brightening. "That's great."

Julian smiled. Jake had always been a young man of strong and swiftly shifting feelings. He was glad to see that hadn't changed. "We could do it now if you like. Come back to my office. Can I get you anything?"

Jake sprung forward and followed close behind. He hadn't quite outgrown his lankiness, and he moved with energy rather than grace. "I'd kill for a raktajino; good ones are hard to come by on Earth. Funny the things you miss." He looked around the infirmary as if he'd missed it too, though he'd never given it a thought or spent much time there when he lived on DS9.

"One raktajino coming up." Julian ordered a tea for himself, then sat down, legs sprawled out, cradling the mug in his hands. 

Jake fidgeted with his recording stuff, spilled some raktajino, and then looked at Julian questioningly.

"Ask away," said Julian.

"We'll start easy. What's your favourite breakfast food?"

Julian raised an eyebrow and Jake laughed.

"I sell a lot of food-related stories; in fact, I've got quite a following," Jake explained. "It's not exactly what I want to write about, but I understand it – the Siskos are famous for their palates, you know - and it's a way of getting my name out there."

"I see. Well, then, who am I to disappoint your audience? Scones and Tarkalean tea, extra sweet."

"What Bajoran food would you recommend to people?"

"All of it, really. It's fantastic. But since we're talking breakfast, mapa bread and moba jam?"

"Mmm-hmm. What about Cardassian food?"

"That's a tough one. Cardassian cuisine is hard for a lot of people because it's layered with as many as 15-20 different flavours that occur in a given order, and you're supposed to savour them one by one."

"What was Garak's favourite?"

"Funny enough, for all his prating about the superiority of Cardassian cuisine, Elim more often than not ordered Earth foods, and his favourite dessert was Delavian chocolate. He did like Rokassa juice, though."

Jake wrinkled his nose in remembrance. "Is that that stinky one?"

Julian laughed. "Yeah, but it tastes better than it smells. It's not bad, actually. Elim said it was remarkably soothing on the nerves."

"Really? That could work – one of the articles I'm writing is on alien superfoods." He made a note on his PADD, adding " I promise that's the last question about food." When he looked up again, it was with his serious reporter mien. "You've been very outspoken about the Federation's aid policies. Do you think you're biased by your intimate relationship with a Cardassian?" 

The tea Julian had been bringing to his lips was suspended as Julian stared open-mouthed at Jake.

"I mean, you don't have to answer, if that was inappropriate, or –"

"No," said Julian, recovering. "You surprised me, but It's a good question." He considered his response. Was he biased? Even if he were, did it mean he was wrong?

"I don't think so," he said at last. "Being on DS9, being friends with Garak, has given me a greater understanding of other cultures and how they view the Federation. We have good foundational values, but we're too complacent. We don't examine our own behaviour to see if we actually live up to those ideals, and others see us as smug and superior because of it."

"Harsh words."

"Harsh realities. Jefferson wasn't wrong when he said that eternal vigilance was the price of democracy, or of anything worth protecting. And it wasn't only or primarily Cardassia that disturbed me. Many of the criticisms I made arose from our dealings with Koreda."

"All right. But aren't people right in saying we need to look after our member planets? After all many of them suffered heavy damage during the war, like Betazed."

"Of course we need to look after our member planets, but it's a false dichotomy. We have the resources to do both. We choose not to for political reasons. That's what I'm protesting. And before you say it, no, Cardassia doesn't deserves to suffer because of its role in the war. It was Dukat and others who chose to join the Dominion, but it's the poorest members of Cardassia – those with no voice in its actions – who are suffering now." Julian had sat up stiffly, hands clenched around his mug. 

Jake said slowly, "I think part of the problem is that, back on Earth, people don't see the suffering, so it's not real to them."

Julian relaxed back into his chair and took a long sip of tea. "Let me be clear. My problem is with the policies of the Federation and Starfleet, and certain individuals within Starfleet who espouse those policies, not with the people who are just doing their jobs the best they can, trying to make things better."

"Noted." Jake steepled his fingers and looked up at the ceiling as he marshalled his thoughts. It was something Julian had seen Benjamin Sisko do many times, and it brought him painfully to mind. "I've listened to your other interviews, of course. It seems to me that you come down to a simple statement – that aid should be free and free of political interference."

"Yes, that's it exactly. That's a nice way of putting it."

"Maybe it'll make it onto a poster," Jake grinned, "Although it's not quite as visceral as putting the heart back in the Federation. You've been following the protests?"

"Yes." The outrage sparked by the recording of Julian's rant had not tapered off – against Julian's and indeed Starfleet's expectations - but continued to ripple outwards to all parts of the Federation. Julian had been in high demand, been communicating with many people, helping where he could to organise and offer advice.

Julian told Jake what he'd been seeing and hearing from others, and before either knew it over two hours had passed. Jake switched off the recorder. He held out his hand again. "Thanks, Doctor Bashir. I'm glad I was coming out this way – though I might've anyway, just to interview you."

Julian leaned forward to grasp his hand. "Well, if you'd waited another two months you could have interviewed me on Earth. You may as well know, I'm taking a leave of absence from Starfleet and joining the Vandermeek Institute there."

"What?" Jake's fingers fumbled over the recording device, flipping it back on. "Did you face repercussions from speaking out?"

"No, definitely not! I'm not being drummed out of Starfleet, and I don't want anyone to think that. In fact, I was offered a posting on the Hercules mission but, well ... Starfleet's current focus is on regrouping, protecting its borders, and less on exploration. Maybe it needs to do that, but for me – I need to go where I feel I can make the most difference, and right now that's the Institute."

"I've heard about it. It was founded by Hans Vandermeek a few years ago, wasn't it? During the war? Which didn't make him very popular at the time."

"Yes. It's a revolutionary idea. They're making an exhaustive catalogue of medical, botanical, technological and cultural data from across the quadrant, looking for similarities and differences and compatibilities, and seeing if they can find solutions to difficult problems by thinking more broadly. It's exciting work, and I'm excited to be taking part in it."

"Will it be hard leaving DS9?"

Julian cast a quick, reflexive glance towards Cardassia. "Leaving behind people and places you love is always hard."

"I know, " said Jake. "But we have to all the same, don't we?"

Julian looked thoughtfully at the young man before him, no longer so young nor so naive. "Yes," he said. "Yes, we do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't originally planned on it, but Jake Sisko inserted himself into the story and I'm glad he did.


	7. Hope on the Horizon

Garak fussed with the small blanket, tucking it more firmly around Pip's shoulders, wishing it were an effective barrier against the cold and not a helpless gesture of comfort. Pip shivered in his sleep and pressed closer to Garak, who wrapped an arm around him and rested his head awkwardly against the cold metal wall. Koredans preferred a much colder temperature than Cardassians. Garak supposed he was lucky they hadn't had to bribe and smuggle their way onto an Andorian freighter. 

The cold, coupled with an almost crippling exhaustion, chipped away at his resolve to stay awake, but he ignored it. He could not afford to sleep around so many strangers. There were roughly one hundred refugees stuffed into the hold of the freighter they had boarded on Koreda. The majority were natives of the icy planet, where Garak and Pip had languished in the streets for three hungry days waiting for transport, but there were a handful of other races on board. As the only Cardassians they had drawn the most whispers and stares – fewer now as the days and hours dragged on, true, but there was almost always at least one pair of eyes turned their way: curious, questioning ... hostile. Koreda, thankfully, had no historical conflict with Cardassia, but they had suffered under the Dominion, and no one in the Alpha Quadrant had forgotten who was to blame for that.

Garak fingered the woefully empty bag of latinum strapped to his side. He'd scrounged what he could before they left, picking through the unstable debris of Tain's home, and saved what he could since. He'd eaten sparingly, grudgingly - a fuller stomach would be of little use and less comfort if they were turned away from the station, whereas the latinum – especially if supplemented with delicately applied threats – would leave them enough to travel on.

Garak reflexively tightened his grip on the bag as a man stumbled past on his way to the facilities. On Cardassia, in the unsavoury vessels they'd had to stomach in order to leave her, on the streets of Koreda, he had kept one hand wrapped around his disruptor. Now he kept it firmly on the latinum. Garak had seen the subtle hands slip into the unwatched bags of those too weary to guard them. 

How many more hours until they finally latched onto the clunky docking ring of Deep Space 9? One? Two? There were no windows, no way to judge the creeping progress of the aged freighter. He pushed his impatience aside, marveling at it. How unlike his first arrival! Then he had counted down the hours in dread, like Faust counting the seconds to his damnation. 

Now the station beckoned him onwards, a doubtful harbour. Much would have changed since he left. Julian would be gone, posted who knew where. Kira? If she were there, would she let them stay? Would her superiors allow it? What was happening on Bajor now? Would they have joined the Federation after the war? Would they have taken over complete control of the station and the space surrounding the wormhole? Perhaps Sisko had returned, leading them into a new golden age. Perhaps Kira had joined him, a priestess of the Prophet, preaching love to their own and war onto others, clawing at Cardassia in revenge, the blood spilling over the streets as red as the Fire ...

He startled as an announcement blared over the rusty speakers. He'd fallen asleep. Cursing himself for his weakness, he clutched at the bag, only relaxing when he heard the soft clink of latinum. Beside him, Pip stirred, woken by his movements. He looked up at Garak, raising sleepy hands to sign _Safe?_

_Safe, _Garak signed back. He placed a hand on the boy's chill forehead and smoothed the hair back. "We're at Deep Space 9, Reet'cha. You remember what we talked about? " Pip nodded. Reassured in the knowledge that he could count on Pip to obey instructions and keep himself safe, Garak turned his attention to his surroundings. 

An agitated wave rippled through the refugees, the hull echoing with a nervous, whispering chatter. Garak tidied up their scant belongings. He folded and packed the blanket, pushed the bag of latinum to the bottom of the rucksack, and put away the book he had tried and failed to read. He checked quietly that his weapons were well hidden but accessible, and pulled out the (fake) papers that would be demanded.

The ragged patience that had sustained the refugees broke during the inevitable wait while the ship began the laborious process of docking. Rumours were passed around like batons. Bajor was no longer accepting refugees. They would be turned back. The Federation had taken over the station.

A half hour later, another announcement was made reiterating the necessity of having their identification ready. A security team entered shortly afterward: three Bajorans, none of whom Garak knew. The leader was wearing a Starfleet uniform. She observed the chaos with a grimace worthy of Odo and then raised her voice, her tone demanding the attention of those around her.

"This is the Federation-Bajoran base Deep Space 9. I am Ro Laren, Chief of Security. Please have out your identity papers for inspection. When your name is called, you will come forward to be interviewed. Afterwards, you will receive necessary medical and other assistance while transportation is arranged to Bajor - assuming everything is in order." 

The last was directed at Garak along with a scathing look. Garak smiled, but she had removed her gaze and began moving systematically down through the hold. He watched her progress: efficient, unsmiling – and yet not unsympathetic. He saw, for instance, how patiently she waited while people fumbled nervously for their crumpled pieces of paper. He did not expect the sympathy to extend to him, and he was not disappointed. 

He held out his papers wordlessly as she approached; she barely glanced at them, avoiding their touch as if they were coated in the Tellarian plague, and moved on to the next person. Garak's head started to pound. He was too tired for this. He just wanted a decent meal, a hot shower, a clean bed, a friendly face. 

One by one, the families were called away. The transport emptied until there was no one left but him and Pip. Finally he heard his "name" called – Tan Dentok. He picked up his rucksack, grasped Pip's hand tightly and descended the rickety walkway.

At the foot of the walkway, her head bent over a PADD, stood Kira. Her fiery red hair shone under the bright lights, and Garak swallowed hard as he saw her. 

A second later she looked up.

Garak saw her PADD crack as it hit the floor, heard her swear loudly, and then felt strong arms flung around him. 

It was hard to say which of the three - Kira, Garak, or an astonished Ro - was the most surprised. Kira pulled back quickly. She blushed and ducked her head. "Sorry," she said.

Garak coughed and backed up a step. "My dear Colonel, it's quite all right."

"You know him?" Ro asked Kira pointedly, disliking the ignorance in which she was currently wallowing.

Kira kept her eyes focused on Garak but waved a hand from Ro to Garak and back again. "Ro Laren, Elim Garak. Elim Garak, Ro Laren."

Ro's eyes widened. Elim Garak, former member of the Obsidian Order, former leader of the rebellion with Kira Nerys, former lover of Julian Bashir.

"What are you doing here, Garak?" Kira asked. She scrutinised him shrewdly, having lost neither the knack nor the eye for it. Garak felt her taking in every part of him, from his loose and dirty clothes to the subtle way he favoured his left leg. Her eyes lingered longest on Pip. He could see her thinking, see suspicions that would make Odo proud start to blossom in her mind.

Garak spread the fingers of his left hand and held it palm up in supplication. "We had nowhere else to go. If you can let us stay for a week, a few days, even the night ..." His voice was soft with uncertainty. He didn't want to beg, but he would for Pip. 

Kira laid a light hand on his forearm. "Garak, you can stay as long as you need. When you're ready, you can tell me what happened –I'll hold you to that," she added firmly.

Garak nodded. "Are we free to go then?"

"Not yet. You have to go through the medical check - and no, you can't refuse. If you're idiotic enough to refuse treatment, that's your choice."

Garak turned his head to examine the makeshift walls of the medical area. He could see a handful of Koredans huddled outside waiting their turn. He could not see inside, could not see what, or _who, _was there.

"Julian's not here," said Kira, and Garak hated how well she had learned to read him. She caught the disappointment that flickered in his face and shook her head. "He's not _gone _gone. He's on Bajor. He'll be back tomorrow."

Garak closed his eyes, feeling light headed. He nodded.

Kira picked up her cracked PADD and tapped it futilely before stowing it under her arm, giving him time to recover. "I'll arrange quarters for you, then come by in a few hours after we have the refugees settled to see how you are." 

She turned to leave and Garak came to himself enough to stop her with a hand on her arm. 

"Thank you, Nerys," he said. It was the most honest statement he had ever made to her.

She nodded and strode off.

Two hours later Garak stood outside the doors of his new temporary quarters with his few worldly possessions: Pip, his rucksack, and a box of items Ezri had replicated for them: toiletries, clothes, computer access codes, and a handful of blank PADDs. Although the toiletries were borderline suitable for Cardassian skin and hair, the clothes horrendous, and the access codes irrelevant to someone who had hacked into the mainframe as often as he had, he was thankful for the PADD, and more so for the thoughtfulness.

He was even more thankful when he entered the room and realised it had been reset to Cardassian standards. The warmth and low lighting were a welcome balm after the frostiness of the freighter and the jittery brightness of Federation lighting. 

Garak stumbled as he walked in, having put too much weight on his weakened right leg. He hadn't let the doctor near him, but had let him treat an infected wound of Pip's that had been worrying him. Garak dropped the rucksack and hobbled over to place the box on the table. Pip stayed close beside him. When Garak's hands were free, he knelt down carefully and pulled Pip into an embrace, resting his chin on the small head.

"Well, Reet'cha, this is it," he said. "You'll be safe here, I promise. What do you think of our new shelter? Better than the tent?"

Pip shook his head, his lips trembling, and buried his nose in Garak's shoulder, overwhelmed by the newness. "It's okay. It's okay," Garak said, comforting him as best he could. When the small body relaxed, Garak extricated himself and sat Pip on the couch. "Wait here," he instructed.

He went to the replicator and ordered one of the few Cardassian dishes in the menu, wanting to give Pip something familiar. When the small bowl of stew materialised, he took it over to Pip, who looked at it with wide, wolfish eyes. Garak made sure he ate it slowly, then took him into the refresher. He ran warm water in the sink – not wanting to overwhelm Pip with the newness of a shower – and cleaned him with a cloth before dressing him in the pyjamas.

Pip felt the soft blue material with something close to awe. Garak picked him up and carried him in the bed. He got him to lay down, then tucked the blankets in around him. "Now, I know you're tired, and you can sleep here as long as you want. Isn't it cozy? I'll be right close by if you need anything. I'll tell you a story until you fall asleep, all right?"

Pip nodded and closed his eyes but kept his hand grasped firmly around Garak's thumb. Garak smiled and stroked his finger gently over Pip's eye ridge. It wasn't long before Pip's breathing evened out and his grip on Garak relaxed.

Garak watched him for awhile then went into the main living room. He hesitated in front of the computer, then punched in the command that would leave a message on Julian's console. The light flickered on as it began to record. Garak hesitated, then spoke.

"Julian, I know this will come as a surprise to you, but I've come back to the station. Yes, my dear doctor, I know. I can assure you I still can't quite believe it myself. The why is a long story. Suffice it to say that I made a choice, one I think you'll understand, and support. Even more surprising, at least to me, is that I've take on responsibility for a child, an orphan. I'm telling you this now because I don't want you to feel pressured. I know you've probably moved on with your life, and that's good. I'm the one who left, and I have no right to expect anything from you now, especially with how things are, but – but I'm hoping for your friendship, Julian. Please, when you've had time to get over the shock, when you feel comfortable, come see us."

Garak palmed off the comm, not entirely happy with the message but knowing he would never be able to adequately put his troubled feelings into words. He sat down at the table, absently playing with one of the PADDs. He knew he should do something – eat or shower or sleep – but could not bring himself to move and stayed collapsed in the chair, staring at the blank screen.

A while later, he had no idea how long, the door chimed. He looked up blankly. Kira. Kira was coming by. He hauled himself slowly to his feet. 

"Enter," he said.

The door opened.

Julian in the doorway, framed by the light of the hall. 

Julian.

The next thing he knew he was in Julian's arms, collapsed against him, shivering in his warmth, breathing in his familiarity, losing himself in his embrace, parts of him soothed that he didn't even know were raw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter; I didn't want to keep anyone in suspense :)


	8. Beginning Over Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, more sappy, sentimental fluff. Enjoy!

Julian sprawled on the floor, face lined with concentration as he calculated the precise angle at which to place his block. His replica of Big Ben was nearly complete. Beside him, Pip crouched by his own creation, an ever-shifting free form structure to which he added and subtracted pieces with a quiet gravitas. 

At first, Julian had tried contributing to Pip's work. Pip, tense, had followed Julian's every move and then – when he thought himself unobserved - stealthily rearranged the pieces. Julian had wisely started on his own project, and Pip had relaxed.

They had been companionably squatting on the floor for several hours when the door swished open, admitting an amused Garak. Julian blushed and kept his focus firmly on his blocks. He was _not _going to jump up like a lovesick schoolboy and rush over. Pip, however, had no such qualms, and bounded up at the sight of Garak. "Hey!" Julian protested as Pip plowed past, toppling over not only his own structure but Julian's as well. Julian sighed and started putting the blocks away.

Garak swept Pip up into his arms and Pip snuggled happily against his shoulder. "Were you and Doctor Bashir having a good time?" Garak asked. Pip nodded. "That's good," Garak said, smiling. He ruffled Pip's hair affectionately, only to frown and pull his hand away, shaking it dubiously. "But it doesn't explain why you're sticky, my dear," he added, looking over Pip's head at a sheepish Julian.

"There might have been a slight adventure – or rather, misadventure - with dinner. In retrospect, Bajoran syrup souffle might have been a bad idea."

"I see," said Garak, smirking. He turned his head down to speak to Pip. Do you think a bath might help, hmm?" Pip chirped happily. Garak and Pip had discovered a shared love of long soaks in scalding hot water. Garak bounced him playfully. "It went well otherwise?" he asked Julian.

"As well as could be expected." It was Julian's third time watching Pip alone, and though they were slowly bonding Pip never truly relaxed unless Garak were nearby. "At least I didn't lose him this time."

Garak grinned. The first time Julian had watched Pip, Pip had managed to sneak out of Garak's quarters to go in search of him. Julian – who had thought him safely settled down for a nap – only realised he was gone when he got a comm from a disgruntled Ro who'd received reports of an errant Cardassian child from several irate business owners. 

Julian dumped the last of the blocks into their container and stood up. "Before you take a bath, it's time for your medicine." 

Garak wrinkled his nose and Pip imitated him.

"It's for your own good. Don't think I don't hear you both coughing all the time."

"Very well, doctor." Julian was always _doctor _when Garak was put out. He settled down on the couch with Pip while Julian got his medical kit. "Although, really, it's only Pip who –"

"You wouldn't want to set a bad example, would you?" Julian said, already preparing the hyposprays.

Garak's scowl said he wanted to do exactly that, but he grudgingly tilted his head when Julian approached, watching him with wary snake eyes as Julian applied the hypospray.

"Thank you," Julian said after, rubbing the spot tenderly. "Now, two breaths of the inhaler – _deep breaths_, Elim. Good. And lift up your tunic so I can run the regenerator over your lungs." Garak complied with a grumble and Julian slowly worked on the damaged lung tissue, happy with the progress he had made. 

Julian had been appalled when he'd first seen Garak: lungs dredged in dust, throat shredded from thirst, eyes weighted with exhaustion, scales cracked from malnourishment, cuts and sprains blossoming in neglect. Garak had been practically catatonic when Julian had found him, offering no resistance as Julian forced him to eat a little food and shower, practically carrying him to bed where he sat vigil during the long night as Garak coughed and fretted. 

"Doctor? Haven't you done that spot already?"

Julian startled and looked up. "Just being thorough," he said, running his hand over the still-jutting ribs and tutting. He pulled Garak's tunic down and moved on to his less troublesome patient. When he had finished, he sat back on his haunches, poked Pip playfully in the belly, and said, "And for being so good, I have a treat for you."

Garak huffed. "What kind of morals are you peddling, doctor? One should do good for its own sake, not in expectation of reward."

Julian grinned and produced a small, velvety-black box. Garak's eyes widened and he leaned forward, tongue darting out between his lips as he tasted the air. Pip, taking his cue from Garak as always, bent forward as well, sticking out his tongue clumsily. 

Garak's eyes gleamed. "Now where on the station did you manage to secure Delavian chocolate, my dear Julian?" he purred.

Julian smirked, cognizant of the fact that he was no longer _doctor._ "I have my sources." He lifted the lid slowly, like a street performer. Inside were nestled three round, reddish-orange chocolates. "Go on," he urged.

Julian watched their delight, enraptured, reveling in the pleasure he was able to bring them. He thought, not for the first time, how _happy _he was. He didn't just have Elim. He had a home, a family - something he'd never felt the lack of until he understood what it felt like to possess it. 

As Garak and Pip settled into their bath, Julian paced around the small living room, practicing what he wanted to say. When Garak had first returned, Julian had been so relieved that he'd said it didn't matter about Pip. Garak had been wiser in his patience, insisting they wait and not make any decisions whose reversal would be painful to them and harmful to Pip. 

Julian was now glad of his insistence. He had obtained a deferral from the institute and focused on what being with Garak meant now that Pip was involved. Before, he'd given no thought to the responsibilities – and joys – of parenthood. Now he was not leaping blind. Now he knew, and chose to leap regardless. He hoped that Garak would consider moving to Earth with him. As he paced, he quelled the nervous flutter in his stomach that whispered how far Earth was from Cardassia.

He waited until well after Pip was in bed and asleep. He and Garak were sitting on the couch reading, Julian sitting with his legs on the coffee table, Garak's head in his lap. After a number of false starts and unnecessary drinks of water, Julian cleared his throat and said, "I want to talk to you about something, Elim."

Garak didn't even glance up. "Of course we'll come with you, Julian."

"But – but - how did you even _know _about - " Julian spluttered.

Garak interrupted him, fondly patting his leg. "Really, Julian, it's rather cute how you still think you can keep things from me. I was just waiting until you were sure." A suspicious eye swivelled up. "Are you?'

"Yes, I am. Of course I am. Are you? Earth is a long way away, you know."

"I was aware." Garak put down his PADD and sat up, facing Julian. He took hold of Julian's hands, playing his fingers over Julian's knuckles, staring at him with eyes as blue and deep and calm as a mountain lake. "You told me once that home is where the heart is. You are my home and my heart, Julian. You and Pip."

Julian blinked his eyes shut, swallowing the relief that rushed over him like cool water. He squeezed Garak's hands. "And the two of you are mine, Elim. My family. Our family" After a moment he asked, uncertainly, "Do you think Pip will do well on Earth?"

Garak sighed, worry evident in his eyes. "I hope so. He has no future on Cardassia, Julian. Not on any Cardassian world. They'd never accept him. And a freezing cold space station full of Bajorans is certainly no place to raise a Cardassian child."

"And you?"

"I'm endlessly adaptable, my dear. Besides, my bridges are well and truly burnt."

"Rather spectacularly. I still can't believe you threatened and blackmailed every member of the Council to get them to work together."

Garak smiled in wicked delight at the memory. "Neither could Kira."

"She was quite impressed, you know. As was I. And proud. But ..."

"But?"

"You didn't have to leave. You could have stayed, could have fought the Council. I _know _how much Cardassia means to you, Elim."

Garak felt the old heaviness pull at him. He stood and turned away, his eye lighting on Ziyal's painting which Julian had hung on the wall. He was silent a long while before speaking. "I was in love with an illusion," he said. "A beautiful, brilliant illusion that gave light but no warmth."

Julian approached him, a hand on his shoulder. "You weren't allowed anything else."

"I could have stayed. You're right about that. I thought about it, you know. That's what scares me. I was so close to staying. I could have taken control of the Order. I could have taken control of the Council. I might even have been able to keep Pip safe, even as I bartered away his soul." He paused. "He deserves better, Julian," he whispered.

Julian embraced Garak from behind, his chin on his shoulder. "So do you, Elim. So do you."


	9. Shuttle From Earth

It was 2 a.m. Garak, Julian and Kira waited in the chilly docking bay. Julian sat on a crate, twiddling his thumbs and stifling the occasional yawn. Kira leaned back against a metal pillar, staring down blearily at her feet. Garak stood near Julian in silent, reptilian rigidity - unmoving and unblinking. 

Even after many years together, it still unnerved as well as fascinated Julian. The prehistoric mammal in him felt like a mouse in the shadow of a snake; the rest of him marvelled at his stillness, his beauty. They had been waiting for half an hour, and in that time Julian had discerned no flicker of movement in his lover beyond the occasional, languid blink. His scales, however – especially those lining his ridges – had taken on a familiar, whitish hue. 

Julian poked Garak in the thigh to get his attention. "Stop worrying," he admonished. "He'll be fine."

Garak blinked, scowled, and glanced down. He didn't deign to reply.

Kira glanced over curiously. "Wait, how did you know he was worried?"

"The scales on his neck change colour, especially those ones there," he replied, pointing helpfully. "In fact, subtle scaling colouration can tell you a lot about his mood."

"Really?" said Kira, craning her neck to get a look.

Garak glared at them. "That's just the draft from the vents. The _cold _draft from the vents."

Kira snorted. "Yeah, right."

Just then, the docking lights flashed to announce that the shuttle from Earth had arrived. Julian jumped up, suddenly all bouncing, nervous energy while Kira stretched out majestically, like a cat. Garak remained still, but his scales flushed a faint pink. 

The doors of the shuttle hissed open to discharge its passengers – visitors, merchants, and new Starfleet personnel. A handful of people had appeared when a shout of "Auntie Nerys!" came barrelling out of the shuttle, along with its progenitors – Molly and Yoshi – who whipped around the legs of the people in front of them, hurtled down the ramp and crashed into Kira. "Whoa, whoa!" she laughed, squatting down and pulling them both into a hug.

They were followed by a bedraggled and exhausted Miles and Keiko. 

"Ooof, am I glad to get off that shuttle," Keiko groaned, falling dramatically into Kira's arms.

Miles slapped Julian on the back and shook Garak's hand, while Keiko hugged them both.

"Trip that bad?" Julian asked.

"The entertainment system was broken," Miles grumbled. "I spent hours fixing the damn thing only to find out they didn't have any holo vids. Yoshi got space sick – all over my only pair of good shoes; Molly forgot her stuffed tiger and don't even start me on the replicators."

Garak, who had kept half an eye on the shuttle, excused himself from the remainder of Miles' misadventures as soon as he caught sight of their other guest. Joseph Sisko stopped at the top of the ramp, looking around him with an air of tired delight. When his gaze landed on Garak his smile widened. 

"Elim. It's good to see you," he said as he came up, pulling Garak into his arms.

Garak returned the embrace, allowing himself the luxury of basking in it for a moment before extricating himself, pulling back to search Joseph's face. "You look tired," he said. "The beds on those shuttles are atrocious. You must be exhausted. Are you sure you shouldn't have stayed at home?"

"And miss your wedding?" Joseph squeezed his arm. "I'm fine, son. Don't fret so. Besides, Jake took good care of me."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Garak. Jake loped down the ramp, laden with the luggage. Garak held out his hand. "How are you, Mr. Sisko?"

"Please, it's just Jake. I'm good, thanks." 

Julian and the others wandered over. "It's good to see you again, Jake," said Julian. "Did you get the response from your article that you were hoping for?"

Garak missed the answer because a small, disagreeably sticky hand was tugging on his own. Garak looked down. Yoshi stared up at him, all eager seriousness. Once he had Garak's attention, he made his demand. "Mommy said you had a little boy I could play with."

Garak stifled a frown. "That's right, Yoshi. You can meet him tomorrow. Pip is shy and he doesn't like to speak, so you'll need to be patient with him," he said, allowing only a brief flicker of menace to show in his eyes_. _He did not trust any child's innate goodness, but he doubted threatening Yoshi about the consequences of not playing nicely would go over well with his parents – or Julian. 

"That's okay." said Yoshi. "I'll give him one of my spaceships to play with and then he'll be happy. Not the _big _one, because that's _mine_. Daddy gave it to me. He can have the _little _one."

"How _very_ generous," said Garak, thankful Yoshi wasn't attuned to sarcasm. "I'm sure he'll like that." 

Julian clapped his hands together, shooting Garak a warning look. "Shall we get everyone settled? You must be exhausted after that trip." They sorted the luggage and took off. Jake hefted a giggling Yoshi onto his shoulders, Molly at his side chattering. The others followed in pairs: Julian and Miles, Keiko and Nerys and, farther behind, Garak and Joseph.

"How are the wedding preparations coming along, Elim?" Joseph asked as they made their way to the habitat ring. The others, walking faster, were already well ahead.

"Well enough, given the number of guests and the short lead time. Fortunately, Commander Dax is as fond of planning events as her predecessor."

"You hadn't planned on a big wedding, had you? It seems to have grown somewhat."

"Indeed. We have the Grand Negus of Ferenginar, the Chancellor of the Klingon High Council, a Starfleet Admiral ... I had thought of a small, civil ceremony but –" Garak shrugged, staring ahead in uncharacteristically abstracted manner. "We would not be enjoining at all if not for the difficulty of Pip and I entering Federation space otherwise."

Joseph stopped and turned Garak around gently to face him. "What's troubling you, Elim? When you told me you were engaged – I remember how excited, how proud you were."

"I was – I am. You know how important family is to me – not that I ever thought I would have one." 

Joseph said nothing, merely waited.

Garak, feeling the patient brown eyes on him, reflected how similar Joseph and Tain were in this, in their silent contemplation, their unruffled patience. He could withstand neither.

"Our enjoinment would not be recognised on Cardassia," he explained. "More than that, it would be considered immoral, offensive – even treasonous. To marry selfishly, to marry for love, is bad enough – but to marry an alien? To flaunt the union so? To celebrate with enemies of the state?"

"Do you feel ashamed, Elim?"

"No, not ashamed, but I feel ... I feel disconnected, cut off from my people, from my culture. More than when I was exiled. Then my focus was on Cardassia, service to Cardassia, service to the state. Now – my duty, my heart are elsewhere. I'm not sorry, I don't regret what I've given up, but –"

Joseph stilled him with a hand on his forearm. "But you've given up something nonetheless. It's okay to grieve what you've lost, Elim, as well as treasure what you've found. Don't deny yourself that. Don't diminish the sacrifice you made by minimising what it cost you."

Garak reached out tentatively with his other hand, mirrored the touch, the connection. However similar Tain and Joseph's methods, their objectives could not have been further apart. Confessing to Tain brought only release. Confessing to Joseph brought freedom.

He would choose the freedom any day. 


	10. Possibilities from Afar

Julian threw a well-aimed dart, humming in satisfaction as it hit the bulls-eye: game, set and match. It was his wedding day and he was granting himself the luxury of a smashing triumph. He turned to Miles with a sloppy grin and grabbed his beer, raising it cheerfully.

"No need to be so smug about it," Miles grumbled. 

"Sorry," Julian replied, gleefully impenitent. 

Miles spotted Quark and turned on him in his frustration. "Hey, Quark, we ordered another round twenty minutes ago!"

"It's coming, it's coming. Remember, Chief: those who don't practice patience won't produce profit," Quark quipped as he scuttled past them. "I'm a busy man, you know."

"Busy flirting with Natima Lang, more like it," Miles snorted. He turned to Julian. "Now _there's _an unlikely pair. Did you know she was his plus one?"

"No .... but then, well, we didn't actually _invite_ anyone off station to the wedding but you, Jake and Joseph. Everybody else just got wind of it and hopped on a shuttle." Ezri had used the ballooning numbers to inflate her argument that they needed a more elaborate ceremony – the management of which Dax was eager to oversee. Julian, not realising the added distress it would cause Elim, had succumbed to her pleading pouts for a _few _extra frills – also not realising that a Dax once slipped of its leash was nevermore restrained. Ezri had fished ideas from the ocean of cultures floating throughout the quadrant. They'd had Earth best men to show their support, Trill sponsors to extol their virtues, Bajoran mirrors to reflect their love, and Caitian garlands to wrap their guests. They'd had Delavian cake, Betazed truffles, Bolian wine and Denubian squid. They'd had guests reciting literature from favourite authors, an unveiling of three new holosuite adventures from Felix, and finally the post-reception post-party party at Quark's.

"Not quite the quiet and discreet affair we'd been planning," he remarked.

"So you didn't know Odo was coming?" Miles asked.

"I didn't even know he and Kira kept in touch, but I'm glad he came. It meant a lot to Elim." He grimaced at the particularly vivid image his memory suddenly produced. "I _still _can't believe Nog got him to do the Cardassian neck trick."

"Ugh, yeah, that was something, right? Too bad it Martok and Worf had to follow it up with that aria." Miles appreciation of music was deep - and deeply discriminatory against gratuitous melodrama.

"It was inevitable. At least Martok only brought a _small _dead Targ to the reception."

"It wasn't half bad – well, after Dax sent it off to get cooked, anyway." Unlike many, Miles – who had grown up on non-replicated food and real meat – wasn't put off by the Klingon delicacy. "Do you think it'll make it into Jake's article?"

Julian groaned. "How can it not? _When _did I give him permission to write a feature article on our wedding, exactly?"

"Sometime between the Traxian fire drinks and the Romulan ale apple bobbing contest. Course, the real question is when you're going to tell Garak."

"Absolutely bloody never, if I can help it. Maybe he won't see it."

"Sure, it's not like he's, y'know, a _spy _or anything. Jaysus, Julian."

"I just hope my parents see it," Julian declared. His father – whom Julian had reluctantly notified – had lambasted him for humiliating them by marrying not only a Cardassian – a disgusting and reviled race – but a _nobody_ Cardassian tailor and summarily refused the not-even-issued invitation on both his parent's behalf. 

"Yeah. If you weren't something of a celebrity already, you'll be well on your way once Jake's pen takes hold of _this _circus."

Julian shut his eyes and sighed. "Garak's going to kill me, isn't me?"

"Yep." Miles tilted his glass to coax out the last few drops.

"I just hope I'm not making a mistake."

Miles stared sadly into the empty glass. "A wedding reception may not be the time to ask that question, Julian lad."

"Pffff no, not _that_. It's just ... I'm dragging them halfway across the quadrant to a planet where, frankly, I'm not even sure I belong myself. What if they're unhappy?"

Miles stole an ale from a waiter passing by who was too harassed to notice the theft. "Look Julian ... marriage, having a family - it doesn't make things easier, it just bollocks things up more. So you deal with it. You talk. You figure things out."

"It's just – I remember how hard it was for you and Keiko when she was working on Bajor. And Garak – he doesn't even _have_ an option like that. What will he do there?"

"Tailor again? I dunno. Knowing him," said Miles, taking a long and thoughtful draught of ale, wiping off the bit of leftover foam with his sleeve, "Probably what you least expect."

There was little that escaped Elim Garak's notice, even if others were unaware of his gaze. He noticed Jake and Nog as they switched the labels on Quark's bottles; he noticed Leeta as she dodged yet another of Martok's targ-hunting tales; and he noticed Pip as he snuck under the skirt of the dessert table in stealthy pursuit of the O'Brien children and their gang. No doubt grubby hands would soon periscope up to grasp handfuls of syrupy sweets. He was happy to see Pip interacting with other children – even if he were more stalking them than playing with them, Garak supposed it was a start. 

He shifted his eyes back to Odo, who was observing the chaos with an equally practiced eye.

"You miss this, don't you, Odo?" Garak remarked. "I mean being a Solid, or perhaps just being around Solids."

Odo's perpetual scowl curved further downward. "What makes you say that?"

"Come now, Odo. It's rather obvious. Why does it bother you to admit it?"

Odo did not respond immediately. Garak knew better than to rush him and instead picked desultorily at the cloying Bajoran honey cake on his plate that Kira had foisted on him. A full five minutes later, his patience was rewarded as Odo's desire to share with someone capable of understanding him overcame his reluctance to share at all. 

"Despite our ability to bond," Odo began, "I have found it ... difficult ... to convey my appreciation of Solids to my people. My fondness for them is seen as odd, aberrant – treasonous, even." 

Garak tried not to flinch at the word. "A foot in two worlds, at home in neither?" he ventured.

"Something like that," Odo admitted, "And your feet, Garak?"

"Somewhat in between, at the moment."

"What will you do on Earth?" Odo inquired, with more than a little curiosity. He himself, like all his people, disliked change, newness, disorder ... he couldn't fathom having to adapt to a whole new life, much less willingly embracing it. 

"Oh," Garak said, waving his fork airily to suggest an abundance of choice, "Any number of things, I should imagine." 

Odo huffed his skepticism and Garak preened. In fact, no less than three wedding guests had approached him with offers: a blunt request from Julian's new boss to join him at the institute; a clumsy suggestion from Admiral Ross to consult for Starfleet, and a tantalisingly circumspect invitation from Natima Lang to participate in the Cardassian dissident movement. 

No details of which he was willing to share with Odo, or anyone, yet. Fortunately, he was saved from further temporisation by the arrival of Julian, Miles, Ezri and Kira. "Are we interrupting?" asked Julian.

"Yes, but not unpleasantly so," said Garak, pulling out a chair for his husband. Julian flopped down and immediately reached out to rest a hand on Garak's knee. Garak grasped the seat of Julian's chair and dragged it closer so Julian could wrap an arm around him instead.

The group reminisced about their time on the station, on the changes and missing faces, as old friends are wont to do. Garak let the others talk, taking it all in, basking in the warm presence of his husband beside him. 

After awhile Pip stole up and settled sleepily in his lap. Garak smoothed his hair tenderly. 

People stopped by the table as they drifted off home or to bed, until Quark's was nearly empty but for their small group of friends, and soon they too would part. He and Julian would wander back through the deserted corridors to their quarters. In a few days they would say their final goodbyes. Then, in a week or so, they would be on Earth.

_Ready or not, _he thought -

_Here I come._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> I have no current plans to write more in the series, but one never knows - I might start wondering what havoc Garak is causing on Earth. Subscribe to the series or follow me on tumblr (@zaan-zaan) if you want updates or feel like throwing me your own ideas on what happens.


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